


Impossible Imps

by tinsnip



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Cleanup duty, Clever Bentley, Gen, Good Dog!, Heavenly creatures, Imps are trouble, and Hellish creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 11:13:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19904800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: The imps wouldn’t stop screaming. Crowley was getting tired of it. Well, I say getting: he’d been tired of it the moment it started, and now he was absolutely fed to the teeth. The imps had been quiet enough in their abandoned lot, munching on lager cans and assorted rubbish. He had felt an inclination to leave them there; they’d cause trouble, yes, but eventually they’d evaporate, leaving behind nothing more than a bad smell and perhaps a minor nosebleed.But there hadn’t been only Hellish imps in that lot. There’d been Heavenly imps, too.A story of Aziraphale and Crowley on clean-up duty, based on a fantastic prompt provided by little snip, who co-authored this story and drew the pictures.





	Impossible Imps

The imps wouldn’t stop screaming. Crowley was getting tired of it. Well, I say _getting:_ he’d been tired of it the moment it started, and now he was absolutely fed to the teeth. The imps had been quiet enough in their abandoned lot, munching on lager cans and assorted rubbish. He had felt an inclination to leave them there; they’d cause trouble, yes, but eventually they’d evaporate, leaving behind nothing more than a bad smell and perhaps a minor nosebleed.

But there hadn’t been only Hellish imps in that lot. There’d been Heavenly imps, too.

Perhaps we’d best step back a moment. Let’s talk about imps.

Just as Hell has imps (strange and furious balls of malice, wrapped in fur), so too does Heaven. As below, so above. This may sound strange to the average human, steeped in images of Heaven that involve fluffy clouds, harps, and cream cheese, but be advised: Heaven is an ethereal realm, home to a variety of equally ethereal creatures, and they’re a much odder bunch than humanity will give them credit for. It’s strange, really: Earth boasts the duck-billed platypus and the dumbo octopus, not to mention a plethora of other odd creatures great and small, and yet the average human can’t fathom the idea of Heaven having its own horrible little spike-covered furry vermin.

‘Vermin’ is an emotionally-loaded word, but if anything’s emotionally loaded, it’s imps.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/182892855@N08/48342851242/in/dateposted-public/)

Imps get into everything. Imps nibble at angels’ wings. Imps bite through the harp strings. Imps drink all the ambrosia and then crap in the amphorae. Imps screech during prayer and shed all over the holy tapestries and howl in the trees when you’re trying to meditate. Imps are a trial, given by God to test angelic virtue.

So the angels say, anyway. The demons just say they’re a bloody nuisance. (How they got into Hell is a mystery. The going theory is that an archangel cracked and punted a few of them off the edge. Nobody’s talking, anyway.)

Imps live in Heaven and in Hell. They do _not_ live on Earth.

But they really, really like it there. And sometimes, if an angel or a demon is careless with their dimensional translocation, they carry an imp with them.

It only takes one, you see, to make another, and then another, and then another. Even though they’ll puff out eventually in Earth’s atmosphere (possibly something to do with the extremely high radiation content; too much Sun will kill you), they can wreak quite a bit of havoc in the time they’re earthbound.

Which brings us back to Crowley, and the pointed tap on his shoulder as he’d turned away:

“You aren’t planning on leaving them there.”

Oh, damn. Aziraphale had turned up. Heavenly imps, too: right. He’d probably gotten the same terse instructions Crowley had received. Probably not over the morning news, though.

Crowley had frozen, composing his face, and then turned and smiled his most affable smile: “Aziraphale! Imagine my surprise.”

Aziraphale’s expression had been frosty. “If you leave them there, they’ll wreak havoc.”

“Limited havoc,” Crowley had said, equivocating, “can’t really call it havoc at all, be over in a few days. Humans’ll never notice.”

“They won’t notice the way their greengrocers have been emptied of produce? They won’t notice the...” Aziraphale’s nose had wrinkled as he’d wrestled with an unpleasant thought.

“Shit everywhere?” Crowley had offered, helpfully.

“Droppings,” Aziraphale had said delicately, “and yes.”

“It’ll biodegrade. Good for the plants.”

“Not on the sidewalk it won’t. No, Crowley. We must clean up our own mess.”

“But we didn’t do it,” Crowley had wheedled. “Wasn’t us that left the door open, was it.”

Aziraphale had pursed his lips. “While I do agree that it would have been thoughtful for the demon in question to have been more careful with their translocation—”

“What, are we not going to mention the angel?”

“I thought it went without saying.”

“You know,” Crowley had said, “I really think I feel much better for saying it.”

“At any rate,” Aziraphale had said firmly, “we’ve got to get them out of here.”

Crowley’s jaw had dropped. “Get them out— you want to take them somewhere?”

“Well, what had you planned?”

Crowley’d blinked at him, lifted a hand, made a gun out of his fingers, blown smoke off the barrel—

“Oh, you’re _heartless.”_

“And?” Crowley had said.

“No. We shan’t extinguish them. We shall take them somewhere safe and release them there, where they can’t cause trouble. Much trouble, anyway.”

“Shall we,” Crowley had drawled. “And how, exactly, were you planning to transport a dozen-odd imps, angel?”

Aziraphale had smiled angelically.

Crowley hadn’t.

“Oh, no. No. You’re not thinking...”

But he had been thinking exactly that, and now Crowley was hurtling along a country road far in excess of the speed limit, gritting his teeth, listening to the cacophonous symphony of a dozen furious eldritch beings raging in three small dog kennels.

If they piss in the car, he said to himself. If they _dare_ piss in _my car—_

Well, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it, was there.

The radio was contributing to the din. The Bentley was not any happier about its current cargo than Crowley was, and seemed to be coping by pretending it wasn’t happening. _Don’t stop me now,_ it wailed plaintively, _I’m having such a good time, I’m having a ball..._

“You and me both,” muttered Crowley, and jabbed Aziraphale viciously in the side.

“Ow,” said the angel, rubbing his side, and turned to look at Crowley. “What was that for?”

“What do you think?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You and your bleeding heart—”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind,” he said wearily, and turned back to the road, and Aziraphale huffed to himself and crossed his arms over his chest, secure in his absolutely enormous pair of noise-cancelling headphones. Crowley’s attempt to miracle himself a matching set had been promptly cut short by Aziraphale’s finger-snap. “You’re _driving,”_ he’d said, frowning, and argument had proved futile.

Crowley could now, he thought, advance the argument that being exposed to the constant nail-on-chalkboard screech of angry imps was not improving his driving.

Then the first imp bounced off the back of his head—

Perhaps I should tell you another thing about imps. Yes, this is rather a lot to remember. There won’t be a quiz at the end, but it may be worthwhile to pay attention.

You see, imps are mostly brain. Surprisingly. One would expect that they’d be mostly digestive tract and reproductive system, but remember: ethereal. They don’t play by earthly rules. If they want to generate more of themselves out of nothing, they just do. Similarly, wherever the ambrosia goes, it isn’t a stomach, and how they manage to generate quite so much, shall we say, _waste material_ is a mystery not yet solved by the combined forces of Heaven and Hell.

Cut an imp open (you monster) and you’ll find pink mist and one enormous brain.

What I’m getting at is: imps are _clever._ The lock on, shall we say, a dog's kennel is easy enough for them to figure out.

Also they're telekinetic. Did I mention telekinetic?

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/182892855@N08/48342851297/in/dateposted-public/)

—and then another and another—

“Aziraphale!” he shouted, fighting for control of the wheel: an imp had landed on it and was jerking it back and forth. “Do something!”

The angel was flustered. The imps attacking his hair and clothing weren’t helping. At least one enterprising imp had snatched off the headphones. One bite, two bites—

“Get behind me, you foul fiends!”

The Heavenly imps chirruped, offended.

“All right, fair and foul fiends - but get back into the back seat where you belong - oh, I _say—”_

Aziraphale had unbuckled himself and clambered up on his seat. He was valiantly batting imps into the back seat as they flew at him. He was only one angel, though, and Crowley, trying to control the panicking Bentley, was no help at all. Imps zipped back and forth through the car, screeching. One bit Crowley on the ear.

“Ow!”

Beside him, he felt a flare of angelic rage. “All right, then,” shouted Aziraphale, “if that’s how you want to play it—”

Suddenly, white wings _thwumped_ into being, and the interior of the Bentley was even more cramped than it had been before. Great white feathers splayed out across the windshield.

“Aziraphale, I can’t _see!”_

“I do apologize,” said Aziraphale, halo glowing brightly, his wings sweeping back and forth, swatting imps out of the air and Crowley on the side of the head. “Just a moment, I think, this sort of thing usually works—”

Crowley growled, spitting out feathers. “They’re _ethereal,_ you idiot! They’re not afraid of us! Manifesting your holy glory won’t do a damned thing—”

“If you’ve got a better idea I would _very_ much like to hear it—”

“How about killing them? The way I wanted to? Say the word, these fingers are ready to snap—”

“That’s murder, Crowley—”

“You make it sound like such a _bad_ thing—”

 _Screeeeeeeeee,_ announced the Bentley, coming to an extremely abrupt stop off the side of the road, and Aziraphale bounced off the windshield, followed by a brief hail of imps. (Crowley didn’t. Demons are too cool for seatbelts, yes, but most demons don’t ride in cars particularly often, either, and Crowley had come to terms with being a bit uncool if it meant he dealt less often with seat belt blitzes.)

The angel groaned under a pile of stunned imps.

“Aziraphale!”

“I’m all right,” came Aziraphale’s voice. He emerged from the pile, rubbing his head. “What’s happened?”

 _Be gone with you, you shod and shady senators,_ declaimed the Bentley, and both doors opened with a bang.

“We’re being thrown out,” said Crowley, and patted his car’s dashboard appeasingly. “Look, I’m sorry about this, don’t be—”

The horn sounded. And continued to sound.

Hands over their ears, Aziraphale and Crowley eased themselves out of the car, which shut its doors as soon as they were out and clicked down its locks with finality.

“Come on, darling,” crooned Crowley.

The Bentley turned up the radio.

Crowley turned abruptly, throwing up his hands. “Great. Perfect. We’re in the middle of nowhere with a car full of imps.”

Aziraphale was rubbing his lips, thoughtful. “Crowley—”

“I’m never going to get the smell out. And the dashboard’s got tooth marks in it—”

“Crowley, my dear—”

“The car is going to be sour about this for months. I’ll be lucky to get over forty miles an hour. And as for the suspension, well, believe me, until you’ve had that car angry with you, you don’t know the meaning of a real pain in the—”

“Crowley, shut _up.”_

Crowley shut up, wounded.

“Look around you. Where are we?”

Crowley looked. His mouth dropped open. He lowered his sunglasses for a moment, peering over them, making really sure.

Aziraphale nodded.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Crowley, slowly. “What are the odds?”

They looked at the signboard, proudly erected in a roadside flower bed:

 _ **Welcome to Tadfield: a little bit of Heaven on Earth**_ , it said.

“I think your car is up to something,” said Aziraphale.

They looked at each other. Crowley frowned, ventured a guess: “Adam?”

Behind them, the car radio plummeted to almost nothing. They turned. The Bentley winked a headlight at them and cracked its front doors just a little.

Five minutes later, Aziraphale was rapping genteelly at the door of 4 Hogback Lane, while in the background Crowley—

It’s a bit complicated to explain what Crowley was doing.

He appeared to be engaged in filling the interior of the Bentley with a combination of choking-thick smoke and gold glitter.

This is not, in fact, what he was doing.

Here is another fact about imps: Hellish imps, when they bite, leave a circle of large tooth marks. Heavenly imps, on the other hand, leave a sizzling golden slash. Neither of these is particularly welcome in Crowley’s Bentley.

Hellish imps, when they feel threatened, spew noxious smoke, and Heavenly imps—

You’ve guessed it.

You’ve also likely guessed what Crowley was doing.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/182892855@N08/48342851212/in/dateposted-public/)

Aziraphale smiled at Mr Young, who stood in the doorway suspiciously.

“Good day,” he said, bowing slightly (while in the background a combination of demonic cursing and high-pitched shrieking vibrated the Bentley’s windows). “Mr Young, isn’t it? I wonder if I might speak with your son?”

Mr Young frowned at him. He was clearly aware that he knew Aziraphale somehow, and was also clearly uncertain about what that somehow was. “Certainly, Mister... ah...”

“Aziraphale,” said Aziraphale.

“Right. Right. I’ll just... I’m sorry, how does he know you? Forgive me, it’s just slipped my mind.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, and thought for a moment about how to explain. He had met Mr Young before once, very briefly. He hoped devoutly that those circumstances were now very foggy in Mr Young’s mind, which seemed likely, as Mr Young had not immediately closed the door and rung for the police.

“H’lo, Mr Aziraphale,” interrupted a bright young voice from behind Mr Young, and Adam Young peered around his father. “Where’s the other one?”

“Hello, Adam,” said Aziraphale warmly, as his very being resonated to the presence of the one-time Antichrist, and he resisted the powerful urge to— well, to do something extremely angelic, certainly. “He’s, ah,” and Aziraphale gestured behind him, “in the car.”

Something unprintable wafted through the air, followed by a thump; in the car, glitter exploded.

“Oh,” said Adam thoughtfully, and scratched his ear. “I reckon I’d better have a look.”

Mr Young straightened up, on firmer ground again. “Take that dog of yours with you if you’re going out.”

Adam nodded affably and ambled out, waiting to close the door until Dog trotted out after him. Dog stopped for a moment to sniff Aziraphale’s trouser leg and peer up at him. Aziraphale scratched him behind the ears, then sucked at his burned fingertips.

“So,” said Adam in the measured tones of a twelve-year-old who could, if he wanted, destroy all of space-time, “what’s happened?”

“Well, you see,” said Aziraphale, horribly embarrassed, and told him. In the car, Crowley howled his fury. The Bentley rocked back and forth as imps bounced off the windows.

Adam nodded slowly. “Imps don’t sound as if they ought to be allowed on Earth.”

“Oh, they shouldn’t be,” said Aziraphale fervently. “They’re meant to be in Heaven. Or in Hell, I suppose. But they do like it here. They keep finding ways back.”

Adam picked up a blade of grass and chewed on it, thinking. “I could make ‘em stop.”

“Oh, I do hope so.”

Adam stopped chewing and looked up at him, considering. “Do you?”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, and found that suddenly he was wringing his hands together. “Well. I mean. I wouldn’t want to hurt them.”

“I don’t want to hurt ‘em either. Seems like it’s not their fault they’re here. Seems like angels and demons can be just as careless as humans, an’ then everyone gets upset at the imps instead of gettin’ upset at who they should be upset at.” Adam’s voice was level.

“I, I daresay there’s, ah, some truth in that,” stammered Aziraphale.

Adam looked at the ground, considering, and tossed the blade of grass aside. Dog snapped at it. “Well, no point in worryin’ about it all now. What do you need me for?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” said Aziraphale.

Adam squinted at him.

“The Bentley brought us here,” said Aziraphale. “And it has an instinct for this sort of thing. But it’s not, I’m afraid, particularly good at explaining its thoughts. Um.”

Beside Adam, Dog barked once, sharply.

Adam’s brows lifted, and he crouched down next to Dog, ruffling his fur with his hand. “What d’you think, boy?”

Dog was staring fixedly at the Bentley, nostrils flaring, the faintest hint of red light in his eyes.

Adam nodded, suddenly smiling just like a typical twelve-year-old boy might smile. Mischief featured prominently. “Good dog,” he said affectionately, “you smart old thing.”

The Bentley’s doors unlocked and swung open. Within the car, Crowley, on his back with arms and legs poised for maximum attack potential, gawped at them upside-down. Imps paused, disbelieving, then screamed for the exits—

Dog launched himself towards the car, a torrent of barks raining down on the imps, who stopped midair and fled back into the car and out the other side. Dog went after them, claws scrabbling for purchase on the Bentley’s leather seats ( _“no,”_ gasped Crowley, despairingly), and then he was bounding down the street after the fleeing imps, radiating demonic intent. Adam ran after him, laughing, cheering him on; behind him, Aziraphale ran, puffing unhappily, and Crowley chased after him, legs akimbo. (The Bentley did not chase anyone. It had, it felt, earned a rest.)

 _“nu doog! nu doog! nu doog!”_ the imps shrieked—

I did mention imps have big brains, yes? Rudimentary speech, also. Don’t go thinking they’re sapient, though. They’re just clever enough to cause trouble... and annoy you. That may, in fact, be what they’re for. Heaven knows God isn’t talking. Anyway, big brains: and believe you me, both Heavenly and Hellish imps are clever enough to understand very well what a Hellhound is. Fleeing is usually their best option, and when flight doesn’t work...

—and after them pelted Dog, ebullient with purpose and barking ferociously. Adam shouted after him: joyful, wordless encouragement.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/182892855@N08/48342851322/in/dateposted-public/)

Aziraphale had, by this point, slowed to a halt, and was bent over with his hands on his thighs, gasping for breath. Crowley pulled up beside him, frantic, looking from Aziraphale to Adam, Adam to Aziraphale: “Come on! Come on, they’re going to get away, we’ve got to—”

Aziraphale held up a hand. “Don’t—worry—”

“Wha— what do you _mean_ , don’t worry, there’s going to be imps all over Tadfield, and if you think Hell will be pleased with that—”

“It’s fine,” panted Aziraphale, “look—”

Dog had finally caught up to an imp. He circled it, yapping with delight. The imp fired off black smoke, shrieked in terror—

—and, as flight was clearly no longer an option, it exploded.

Aziraphale clenched a happy fist. “Yes!” he shouted. “Keep at it, you lovely, brave hound!”

Crowley watched in stunned disbelief as Dog weaved back and forth through the group of terrified imps. There was another _bang_ , and another: smoke and glitter wafted upwards, and shortly thereafter the lane looked a bit like the aftermath of a particularly good parade, one which had included a float loaded with fireworks.

“That’s got ‘em,” whispered Crowley, “that’s absolutely got ‘em - no fear of your garden-variety ethereal being, no, but a Hellhound—”

“Nothing in its right mind,” said Aziraphale with a strange sort of quiet pride, “will tangle with a Hellhound.”

Don’t worry. The imps were fine. Discorporation of any ethereal being on Earth means they end up back in Heaven or Hell, and I promise you each imp was being horribly irritating again within the hour.

The Bentley was also fine. Adam looked her over and shook his head sternly, and suddenly she was just as lovely as the day Crowley’d driven her off the lot. Nicer, really: one of the salesmen who’d tried to stop him from driving away with a quite expensive car had left a bit of a ding in the fender, and Crowley’d never been able to get it right afterwards. No ding, now. Crowley tried not to feel a bit guilty about it, as that sort of thing could lead to bad habits.

Dog was more than fine. He hadn’t had this much fun since he’d been sent to Earth. And now that he had the scent of imp, well: there promised to be fine hunting ahead. Less bother for the average human, too, if a portal was left carelessly open.

Even Adam, who hadn’t been particularly bothered, was fine. That night he found, tucked under his pillow, a beautifully wrapped Nintendo Switch. The note with it was written in two different hands. One hand thanked him in kind copperplate for his much appreciated assistance, and hoped he would enjoy this unusual electronic device, as it seemed to be popular with other humans, etcetera, etcetera. The other advised him scratchily that this was definitely a bribe to keep _shtum,_ clever lad, keep it to himself, much obliged.

And as for Crowley and Aziraphale: they’ve never been fine, and they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves if they were.


End file.
